by Steven Henry
The other man, the gaunt, weathered one, stepped suddenly past Van Ormond to regard Luke with his hard, intense stare. The portly professor fell abruptly silent, though the other man hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even looked at him.
“Herr Devins,” the skinny man said, his German accent unmistakable. “Have you seen her?”
“I beg your pardon,” Luke said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think we’ve met, sir?”
“Rudolf Schenk,” the man said. “Humboldt Universität, Berlin.”
“Herr Professor,” Luke said with sudden respect. “I have read many of your articles with great interest.” He offered his hand.
Schenk ignored it. “Have you seen her?” he repeated.
“Seen who?” Erin asked blankly, casting a glance around at the crowd. Her brain, corrupted by pop culture, was already trying to identify whatever actress or tabloid icon this strange man might mean.
“The Madonna,” Luke said, understanding.
“Madonna’s here?” Erin asked, not understanding at all.
Luke laughed. “Not that Madonna, Erin. The Madonna. That’s what she’s being called. The Madonna of the Water. She’s a painting. Probably an unknown Raphael. I’ve only seen her in photos, but—”
“There is no ‘probably’, Herr Devins,” Schenk interrupted. “She is a Raphael, an original.”
“Think of it!” effused Van Ormond. “An undiscovered work by one of the true masters! In near-pristine condition! What value could be put on such a find? At auction, if it proves genuine… why, millions at the least!”
“If she’s authentic,” Luke said, “she’s priceless. But I’ll need to get a closer look. Erin, do you want to see what all the fuss is about?”
Erin nodded. “I’m game. After all, we’re here to see the art, right?”
“Wrong,” Schenk said. He stared straight into Erin’s eyes, and it took everything she had not to flinch away. She didn’t feel that she was looking at a stodgy old professor. And she wasn’t thinking of a homeless bum now. He reminded her of the little kids she’d seen in bad neighborhoods, kids whose parents were junkies and deadbeats. Schenk wasn’t a young man, he was fifty at least, but his eyes were far, far older than the rest of him. He looked like a man who’d taken a guest tour of Hell. “Art is not merely to be seen, Fräulein O’Reilly,” he continued. “Art is a part of us, of our experience. Its history is added to the artist’s original inspiration. Every hand which holds it, every palace and chamber it adorns, every sale, every theft, every murder done for the sake of it… Art is humanity. And like humanity, its history is written in crime and blood. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” Erin replied with a wry smile. “I’m a cop.”
Chapter 5
Most art galleries were sparse, white spaces, with paintings isolated from one another by large patches of blank wall. For the Orphans of Europe, the museum had done something very different. The gallery was black. Black velvet curtains hung at intervals along its length, dividing the space into small rooms. Each room was furnished in the style of the 1940s with old radio sets, armchairs and coffee tables. The effect was somber and a little eerie. Some clever decorator had put little homey touches into the furnishings. Erin saw a pipe just like the one her grandfather used to smoke after dinner, sitting unattended beside an ashtray. Her stomach twisted and she looked away.
The paintings hung amid the everyday things of that long-gone era. The visitors passed portraits, landscapes, still lives, abstract combinations of geometric shapes. These were pieces which had indeed been orphaned, torn from their owners and hidden from the world for decades.
“It’s like a time capsule,” Erin said in a low voice.
Even the gregarious Van Ormond spoke in a near-whisper. “Yes, my dear,” he said. “Just imagine being one of the finders, going into the salt mine and finding so many treasures!”
“And no one knows what happened to the owners?” she asked.
“Disappeared,” Schenk growled. “They went up the chimneys, in the camps.”
“In the Holocaust?” Erin had learned a little about World War II in school, but history had never been her strongest subject.
The grim professor nodded. “Ja, Fräulein.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Van Ormond objected. “The Nazis robbed practically everybody. When Hermann Göring’s treasure was recovered from Neuschwanstein, the Yanks found items looted from museums and private collections all over Europe. Many of the owners were located, still alive. The public artifacts were returned to the proper museums.”
Erin nodded. Luke was listening with polite interest, but he had eyes only for the paintings. His face was thoughtful and intent. He often stooped close, cocking his head to take in each picture from multiple angles.
“So, do you see one you like?” she teased.
“The Madonna is in the next room,” Luke said. “Come on.”
They ducked past the curtain and found themselves alone with the Madonna of the Water.
Erin had never really understood the attraction of fine art. She was impressed by the amount of skill it had taken, of course, and the thought that she was staring at something another person had made a hundred or a thousand years ago was kind of cool, but mostly it left her unmoved. But here she came face to face with a true masterpiece.
The Madonna was small, the whole painting only about two feet on a side. She appeared to be a young woman, but with a serenity that made her age hard to guess. Her eyes were mostly closed, staring thoughtfully at something just over Erin’s shoulder. Her lips turned up in just a hint of a smile, reminding Erin of the famous expression on the Mona Lisa’s face. In the background was a gently rolling seascape. The colors were as rich and bright as if they had just been painted.
Erin caught herself reaching toward the painting. She felt a strange longing to step into it, to curl into the arms of that motherly figure. Her own mother was a stout, redheaded Irishwoman, nothing at all like this placid and holy portrait, but Erin didn’t care.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” Luke murmured.
“Wow,” Erin breathed.
“What is your professional opinion, Mr. Devins?” Van Ormond asked, startling them back into themselves.
Luke rubbed his chin and bent toward the picture. A layer of protective glass prevented him from touching or even breathing on the centuries-old painting, but he got as close as he could without coming in contact with the shield. “It’s a cabinet painting, certainly the correct age,” he said slowly. “The paint is laid on very thickly, with hints of cracking. The composition is consistent with his known works. It’s very reminiscent of the Madonna in the Meadow, but here she is by herself instead of with the Christ child.” He straightened up. “Gentlemen, this is certainly the work of a great master from the early 1500s, either a Raphael, one of his imitators, or maybe a Perugino.”
Erin cleared her throat. “I understood about a third of that,” she said. “You said the paint was cracked. Is that bad?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s good. It comes from using too much resin in the varnish on the paint, and it’s one of the known faults in Raphael’s work. It speaks to the authenticity of the piece. If the cracks weren’t there, she wouldn’t be his.”
“I don’t believe you guys,” Erin said. “You see something like… like this, and you look for cracks in the paint. Can’t you just… I don’t know, look at her?”
“It’s my job, Erin,” Luke said gently. “Could you look at a mug shot and just see whether it was a good-looking guy?”
She smiled, getting it. “No, I’d be looking for distinguishing marks, tattoos, and the look in his eyes. So, what’s a cabinet painting?”
“A painting that was done for a private collector, to be stored in a cabinet for home display,” Luke explained. “That’s probably why we’ve never heard of this one.”
“Raphael executed a great many cabinet paintings for many patrons,” Van Ormond broke in. “He was
immensely prolific, though he only lived thirty-seven years. In that respect he was much like Mozart. Such men of genius never seem long for this world.”
“What’s that?” Erin asked suddenly, pointing to the lower corner of the painting. There were a few speckles of something dark brown.
“Environmental contamination,” Luke said. “Being shuffled all over Europe wasn’t good for these paintings. Many of them are damaged in some way or another. The handlers can sometimes clean them, but they have to be extremely careful.” He grinned at her. “Now who’s looking for imperfections?”
“You’re doing your job,” she said. “I’m doing mine. Those are bloodstains. It’s the sort of spatter pattern you get from an exit wound.” She glanced at Schenk, who nodded.
“Meaning what, exactly?” Luke said, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
“I’d guess someone was shot, standing right about… here.” Erin moved a step back and two steps to her left. “Your Madonna’s lucky, Luke. She almost took one right in the face.”
“I don’t believe this,” Luke muttered. “I bring a girl who happens to be a cop to an art exhibit and she starts investigating a murder seventy years old.”
Erin shrugged. “Without knowing where the painting was, and who was in the room, I wouldn’t be able to build a case. Anyway, it’s not a murder investigation if there’s no body. Maybe the victim survived.”
Van Ormond laughed, but Luke and Professor Schenk didn’t.
They lingered in the Madonna’s room a while longer. Erin didn’t want to leave. She kept looking from the long-dried drops of blood to the placid half-smile on the Madonna’s face. At last, she shook herself free of the painting’s spell and moved on to see the rest of the exhibit.
Chapter 6
“Well? What do you think?” Luke asked. They were standing near the refreshment table, sipping punch. The two professors had split apart and moved off, Van Ormond to mingle with other guests, Schenk to brood in a corner over a glass of wine.
“Amazing,” Erin said.
“I’m sorry about Van and Professor Schenk,” he said. “I’d hoped for this to feel more like a date.”
Erin smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I’m having a good time. I figured it was part of your clever plan. Compared to the two of them, you’re practically irresistible. What’s with Schenk, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about his manners,” she said.
“Or lack of them,” he put in. “That’s why I was apologizing for him.”
“No, I mean, what’s his problem? He seems really intense, almost angry.”
“He takes all this a little personally,” Luke said. “He’s older than he looks, Erin. He was born in a refugee camp after the war. His parents were German Jews. They lived through the Holocaust, but most of their relatives didn’t. His father killed himself in 1962.”
“Jesus, no wonder he’s pissed,” Erin said. “Did he tell you that?”
“Nope. Wikipedia,” Luke said with a wink. “He’s written a lot about reclaimed Nazi treasures. He’s one of the main authorities in the field. I’ve read most of what he’s written, and—”
Erin never found out what Luke was about to say. There was a harsh buzz of an alarm. Then an angry shout cut through the murmured conversations.
“Hey! Freeze! You, right there!”
A spike of hot, pure adrenaline shot through Erin. She reflexively dropped a hand to her nonexistent gun belt, then cursed silently as her hand found nothing but the smooth satin of her dress. She stepped forward and threw out an arm, brushing Luke back behind her.
A woman screamed. Several guards started running, two of them drawing their guns. There was a sound of a scuffle. Then four rent-a-cops emerged from the curtained gallery, two of them dragging a struggling fifth man. His hands were zip-tied behind his back. One of the unattached guards was carrying a mailing tube and a black duffel bag. The other had his gun drawn to cover his comrades.
The other security guards formed a half-circle around the five men. “I didn’t do anything!” the cuffed man screamed. “Help! Help!”
Erin instinctively moved toward the commotion, even as most of the partygoers drew back in alarm. The guy the guards were holding was dressed in a tuxedo, the same as the other male guests. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, well-groomed. It was a good disguise for an art thief, she thought. Very James Bond.
The chief guard approached the four. “What’s going on?” he snapped.
“He busted the glass and cut the painting out of its frame,” the man with the mailing tube explained. “He rolled it up and stuffed it in here, but he wasn’t fast enough.” He gestured to the prisoner, who continued struggling and protesting. “You’re going to jail, asshole.”
“Which painting?” the chief demanded.
“Which one do you think?” the one with the tube shot back. “Listen, we better get him out of here. Can you take him somewhere secure, until the cops get here?”
“Okay, sure.” The chief guard seemed out of his depth, confused and worried. “We’ll hold him at the security station. I’ll take custody.”
“You better take the painting, too.” The man handed over the mailing tube to his superior.
The guests had begun to press back in, muttering and asking questions. The rent-a-cops, heavily outnumbered, were in danger of losing control of the situation. Erin wished again for a gun and a shield. She settled for snatching out her cell phone and punching “1”. 911 was short enough for most people, but Erin knew seconds counted in a crisis, and she’d programmed it on speed-dial.
“911 Emergency,” Dispatch said crisply, picking up on the first ring. It must be a slow night.
“This is Officer O’Reilly, shield four six four oh,” she said. “I’ve got a ten-thirty-one at the Queens Museum. Single white male, ten-twelve with on-site security.” Her code designated a burglary in progress, but that the suspect was in custody.
“Ten-four, O’Reilly,” Dispatch replied. “We confirm an alarm triggered at your location. We’re sending a cruiser.”
“Ten-four,” Erin said.
“Erin, what is going on?” Luke demanded.
“Art heist,” she said. “Some jackass thought he could swipe a painting. Now he’s learning the error of his ways.”
She watched as the man in the tux, continuing to protest, was marched toward the security station. The other guards were spreading out and splitting up, several of them hurrying to secure the crime scene in the gallery, others moving to cover the exits. Erin approved. They were acting like professionals.
But something wasn’t quite right, some little detail nagging at the corner of her mind. She replayed the scene in her head. She tried a trick her dad had taught her. Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath. When she opened them, she’d look at the whole scene with fresh eyes, taking nothing for granted.
Even before she looked, she knew what was happening. It was a shell game. In a good con, the whole point was to keep the marks—not only the guards, but everyone there, including herself—looking at the wrong thing altogether. As a con man would say, the trick wasn’t to get the mark to pick the wrong shell. The trick was to get them to pick any shell at all. Of course everyone was looking at the prisoner. Why wouldn’t they? The guards were just doing their jobs…
The guards. “Oh, shit,” Erin said. She couldn’t be sure it was the same men, but four guys in rent-a-cop outfits were at the outside doors. And one of them was still carrying the duffel bag.
Luke had his hand on Erin’s bare shoulder, asking her a question, but there was no time to answer. She shrugged away his hand, hit the speed-dial on her phone again, kicked off her high heels, and started to run barefoot across the smooth museum floor.
“911 Emergency,” Dispatch said at once, bless them.
“O’Reilly, four six four oh,” she said in fast, short bursts. She was halfway to the door, but the men were already outside, they had guns, and
she had no idea what she was going to do if she caught them. “There’s four thieves at the museum. Dressed as guards. Black duffel bag. Painting inside.”
“O’Reilly, repeat,” Dispatch came back. “Did you say the thieves were dressed as guards?”
“Yes, dammit!” Erin snapped. She was almost to the doors, but she was too far away.
“Ten-four, O’Reilly,” said the imperturbable voice on the other end of the line. Then Dispatch put her on hold.
“Hold it, ma’am!” one of the guards at the door said. “You can’t go out there!”
Erin swerved around him. He made a clumsy lunge, missed her, and fell over. Cursing herself for sixteen different kinds of fool, she shoved the door open and raced outside. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. She and Luke had spent a long while in the gallery. The sun had gone down and the park’s lights had come on, illuminating the giant shape of the Unisphere. Beneath it she could see four dark shapes, jogging through the twilight.
Erin kept running. The concrete was rough through the bottoms of her nylons, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to catch up now, just stay close enough. As long as she could keep the perps in sight, she could direct the cops straight to them. Forcing a confrontation would be pointless and dangerous.
A car was parked at the Avenue of the States. Erin wasn’t surprised to recognize it as a silver Corolla. Everything was making sense, a few crucial minutes too late.
Sirens. Oh, thank God, sirens. Blue and red lights flashed as a squad car, tires squealing, pulled up between Erin and her quarry. Its driver’s-side door swung open and a cop tumbled out, pistol in hand.
“Freeze, police!” he shouted, leveling his gun at the men.
Erin recognized Officer Brunanski by his voice. That figured. All the cops in Queens, and he’d have to be the closest. At least it was someone she knew. She angled toward the squad car and opened her mouth to yell.